


Tired

by scrub456



Series: Inksolation [10]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a good angel, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Caring Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is not a great demon, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Pandemics, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Worried Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:29:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23929216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: Pestilence comes out of retirement.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Inksolation [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1706410
Comments: 16
Kudos: 39





	Tired

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notjustmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/gifts).



Crowley knew what was wrong the moment the Bentley careened around the corner and slid impressively into her usual, improbable, spot in front of the bookshop. 

He'd had an idea, though he'd hoped to be wrong, just based on the sudden onslaught of unease that prickled the back of his neck as he'd attempted to foment rebellion amongst -- a pack... uh herd… no, _gaggle,_ that's it -- a gaggle of geese in the park. It was just the sort of mischief that proved mostly inconvenient to the humans, obnoxious to Aziraphale, and hilarious to himself. 

He'd cut short his conference with George (or so Crowley had dubbed the 'head' goose, also designated by Crowley, and based solely on an interesting speckled design on George's left wing but having nothing to do with how pack… er, gaggle… politics actually work), explaining his _fussy bastard senses_ were tingling. Amid honks and squawks of support from George and his fellow rebels (they knew the fussy bastard one, he always came with snacks), Crowley forgot all about sauntering away coolly as the sense of disquiet grew.

He needed to get to Aziraphale.

Even as he tumbled inelegantly from the Bentley before she'd even shifted into park, Crowley knew he was too late.

There was Aziraphale, framed by the large storefront windows (this being unsettling because, while most ordinary shop owners would use the windows to display their wares and light their stores, Mr. A. Z. Fell normally kept the blinds pulled tight for a myriad of bastardly book hoarding reasons). He looked the same as always, the same as he had for decades, except… _Except._

There was a definite ethereal glow to him. To the untrained eye of the casual passerby (there weren't any passersby, hadn't been many in weeks, as the humans hid themselves away in quarantine. As if that could actually dissuade Pestilence from their _coming out of retirement_ world tour) it might easily have been mistaken for sunlight. Crowley knew better, would recognize the warm radiance of Aziraphale's grace anywhere.

His hands were raised and hovered, perfectly still, very near, though not actually touching, the glass pane (Crowley idly wondered if Aziraphale, in this state, would shatter the old tempered glass if he did actually touch it. He hoped they wouldn't find out). He stared at nothing in particular with unseeing eyes, the crystalline blue even more magnificent than his human corporation normally allowed, illuminated from within in such a way that there was no mistaking the unearthly glory.

The streets around the bookshop were eerily still, with only the occasional lorry passing through, and a queue of people patiently waiting their turn to enter a shop down the next block. Crowley actually heard birdsong somewhere above him, though he paid it no mind as he realized what was happening. What Aziraphale was doing.

Pulsing sweet and soft from the bookshop, coursing in gentle waves along the streets, through every window and every door, was heavenly blessing, divine peace, overwhelming compassion, and restorative health. The reach was far. Too far. As in, heaven will _for sure_ notice this far. What other explanation was there for those people waiting patiently, even pleasantly, in that ridiculous queue down the block?

"Damn." Crowley stumbled a few steps under the weight of the blessing (and realized it burned a bit, not too much, just in an uncomfortably searing kind of way) and waved to get Aziraphale's attention. 

Aziraphale didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't acknowledge his presence, other than to direct the flow of the blessing to pass around Crowley. With the sting of the blessing gone, Crowley sighed in relief, until he recognized a distinct undertone, the undercurrent driving the blessing. The humans would mistake it for their own emotions, but Crowley, demon that he was, was very attuned to it. 

A weary, sorrowful distress surrounded him in the absence of the blessing. And this Crowley knew well, as he did anything to do with Aziraphale.

His mind flashed to the first time he'd felt this particular heartbreak. 

Crowley had been appalled at Aziraphale's initial response to the oncoming flood. He hadn't been able to understand the angel's lack of concern for the sheer horror of the thing to come. But that was the difference between them, at least back then. Crowley, a demon, was hardwired to be concerned with scale. Hell cared about numbers, always trying to one up heaven. If it weren't for the fact that the flood was intended as a heavenly punishment, hell would've been passing out commendations in obscene numbers for the truly cataclysmic event.

He knew it was going to be big. And bad. Very big and very, very bad. He'd been angry with Aziraphale for trying to downplay the magnitude. 

That all changed when the first raindrops began to fall, and Aziraphale, with a manic anxiety, glanced at the people milling about all around them. That's when Crowley realized, Aziraphale had been given the task of looking after Noah and his kin. He'd thrown himself wholeheartedly into being concerned with the individuals, the souls he'd been commissioned to guard. He wasn't concerned for the scale of the thing, because he had single mindedly focused on those people. 

Aziraphale had been well pleased because he'd done his job with excellence… Right up until the very bigness and very badness of what was coming became undeniable, and his hands were bound by duty to Noah and his family alone. There was nothing he could do for the lost souls around him, he and Crowley both knew it, and for a brief, terrifying moment, Crowley thought Aziraphale might discorporate from the anguish alone.

Crowley hated heaven with more conviction for it. And he loved Aziraphale, though he couldn't put words to it, even more.

Those first days on the ark were terrible, made worse by the grieving angel stowed in the bowels of the ship. Crowley had no doubt that the tumult of the raging storm outside was in direct response to Aziraphale's suffering inside. Crowley wanted to help, but those were early days, and back then he didn't think he could actually physically help an angel. And if he could, he didn't know if the angel could, or would, accept said help. So he'd stayed hidden, in serpent form, only occasionally making his presence known to Aziraphale, and he'd been rewarded with a small nod, or a shy smile. Or notably once, and only once, a single angelic finger softly stroking his scales.

With time, their growing friendship, and the eventual agreement between them, Crowley came to recognize the warning signs. The grander the horror to come -- every plague imaginable, every single great war and subsequent war to end all wars, the entirety of the damn fourteenth century -- the worse it was for Aziraphale. A being of love, perhaps the only one truly left in all of heaven, he'd work himself ragged delivering blessings and comfort in times of distress, though he was often charged with specific instructions not to interfere with, or interrupt, the course of events. He'd be recalled and reprimanded every time. And each time, despite Crowley's pleading, and in spite of the strongly worded correspondence from Gabriel, Aziraphale would respond to humanity's suffering, to the needs of the individuals occupying the world around him.

And each time Crowley would despise heaven a little more zeal, and love Aziraphale exponentially more.

But this. This pandemic, it wasn't heaven's punishment, and it wasn't hell inspired, though Crowley could understand, historically, why the humans would think it was. This was Pestilence being petty for having been out of commission for too long. The world hadn't ended like it ought to have, and the warring parties had both withdrawn to some extent as they tried to make sense of the ineffability of the ineffable plan, so the old rules didn't seem to apply. In an act of free-agency, Pestilence had taken advantage of the situation, and humanity was suffering for it.

And by extension…

"Aziraphale," Crowley breathed and shook himself from his thoughts. He stepped quietly through the locked bookshop door, and silenced the tiny bell above the door before it could sound.

"Angel," he whispered as he stepped nearer. Aziraphale didn't turn toward him, but he felt the grace withdraw so he could come closer. "Angel, please."

He knew instinctively Aziraphale's response. _They need me._

"You've helped them, enough Angel. Please." Crowley reached out, but didn't dare touch. 

_They're so fragile._

Crowley swallowed hard. True though it was, his concern was not for the humans in that moment. 

Since they'd defied heaven and hell, they'd been left alone, yes, but there were things, little quirks, they'd both noticed. They were still an angel and a demon, with the powers and abilities inherent to such beings. But instead of free reign of their powers, it was almost as if they would use up a supply and have to rest after to recharge (Crowley hadn't minded this development all that much, but Aziraphale still hadn't adjusted). The bigger the miracle, the longer the recovery after. They were by no means mortal beings, but since they'd stood up against heaven and hell, any support they might have had at one time had been completely withdrawn.

This was a big miracle. Aziraphale had been at it for too long, and Crowley was actually afraid of what might happen if he pulled too much grace from heaven. If Gabriel and those arses took notice. "Angel, you have to stop now. You have to rest." 

Aziraphale slowly closed his eyes, though he didn't lower his hands. _It's not enough._

"You've reached so many. I've seen them, angel. I promise. Please." Crowley stepped right up to him and put one hand on Aziraphale's shoulder.

_Pestilence._

"That's right. But they're resilient, the humans. They're fighting. And you've given enough of them strength to encourage the others. Please, angel."

_So much pain. Death._

Crowley nudged Aziraphale to lean back against him. "I know, angel," he murmured against Aziraphale's ear.

_Tired._

"I know, angel. C'mon." He let his wings fall open and surround them, heedless of the uncovered windows. He felt the blessing gently recede.

"Crowley," Aziraphale barely managed a whisper.

"You've got them, angel." He wrapped himself around his angel. "And I've got you."


End file.
